


Drift

by rageprufrock



Category: Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-12
Updated: 2011-09-12
Packaged: 2017-10-23 16:42:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/252525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rageprufrock/pseuds/rageprufrock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tezuka sleeps.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Drift

Tezuka has watched everyone on his team sleep.  It's not a fascination, just a fact: tennis games are exhausting, bus rides are long, and even Eiji falls silent eventually.

Momoshiro sleeps with his mouth wide open, snoring shallowly, arms and legs akimbo: loud even when he's unconscious.  Echizen sleeps balled up like his cat.  Eiji chatters and laughs until his eyelids get heavy and he sinks guilelessly, shamelessly, until he pushes himself close to Oishi, and sleeps with his face pressed into Oishi's neck.  Oishi sighs, and when he thinks that nobody is watching, runs sun-browned fingers through Eiji's hair until his own eyes slide shut.  Kawamura always gets a window seat and sleeps with his cheek pressed against the glass, serene and strangely so, after Tezuka has seen him waver spastically between nervous and psychotic for so long.  Inui sleeps with his face in his books; Kaidoh drowses, and bursts awake again, fierce and ready to fight for an instant before slipping back to whatever he may be dreaming.

Fuji sleeps like he is drifting in calm water, curled into his seat, knees drawn up to the seat with one hand next to his face, fingers curled in a mimic of his body. 

Tezuka knows this because Fuji always sits beside him.

"Because you're always the most quiet, Captain," Fuji once said.

Tezuka doesn't know how true that is; the sound of papers rustling is always very loud in his ears.  So loud he spends half the bus ride back to Seigaku glancing to his side just to make sure that Fuji still has his eyes closed, that Tezuka hasn't woken him up. 

He tells himself that it is important that he let Fuji sleep because the tennis prodigy gets exponentially more wicked when sleep-deprived, teasing Tezuka about the latest set of love letters in his shoe locker and tucked into the pockets of his bookbag or left in his desk between classes.  It's an explanation that works at fifteen; Tezuka will think about the other ramifications after Seigaku wins the Nationals.

Tezuka almost never sleeps on the bus rides.  There is always paperwork to be filled out or tomorrow's math homework to be done in advance.  Tennis practice doesn't leave much time for a life outside of the courts, and Tezuka fits his education around tournaments, crammed into the spaces between waking and sleep and matches.  It's an uncomfortable compromise, and he's tired a lot, but it's one he's willing to make.

Outside, the scenery rolls by: houses and fields and city peel across the window in a blur.  Sometimes, it's dark by the time that they get back to school, and Tezuka has spent more than one evening trudging across Tokyo back home long after the trains have stopped running.

"I'll walk with you, Tezuka," Fuji always says.

And Tezuka will tighten his scarf around his neck and say, "You live in the opposite direction."

But Fuji is both the irresistible force and the immovable object.  He will only smile gently, blue eyes shining and say, "Let me walk you home."

And Tezuka invariably lets him, feeling like a girl the whole time.

He hears a faint murmur from his side and turns in time to see Fuji blinking awake.

"Where are we?" Fuji asks, blurred from sleep and rubbing his eyes with loose fists.  He is a languid spread of limbs on the seat, alive and unraveling, warm and syrupy.

Tezuka turns back to Trigonometric values and says, "Still two hours away."  He means, "You can go back to sleep, Fuji."

But Fuji doesn't, and leans in, close enough so that Tezuka can feel the sleep-warmth radiating off of him, till the mussed strands of his hair are brushing Tezuka's cheek.  Fuji says, "You're a workaholic, Tezuka." 

"I'm studying," Tezuka says, as if it's an answer.  Fuji always throws him off-center.

Fuji closes Tezuka's math book with one white, white hand--fingers brushing Tezuka's leg.  "You're tired," Fuji says, blue eyes softer than Tezuka remembers seeing.  "And we're still two hours away."  He cocks his head to one side and says, "Why don't you sleep, too."

It makes Tezuka feel raw, exposed, and disoriented.  "I'm not tired," he lies.

Fuji makes a clucking sound of disapproval.  That same white, white hand tugs on the collar of Tezuka's Seigaku jacket until his head is tilted, till the world outside the window is sliding past at an angle--till Tezuka knows that he's nearly leaning on Fuji's slim shoulder.  Close but not enough to touch.  "You're a terrible liar, Captain," he says. 

Tezuka huffs but doesn't right himself. 

"Do you want me to sing you a lullaby?" Fuji asks, and Tezuka can hear the smile in his voice.

Part of Tezuka wants to say "Yes," just to see if Fuji really will.  He says, "No."

"Ah, well," Fuji says wistfully, hands folding in his lap.  "Yuuta always said I had a lovely voice."

Tezuka closes his eyes, and breathes; Fuji smells warm and just-awake, cozy. 

He says, "You're a terrible liar, too," as the world fades out around the edges.


End file.
